


Journey's End

by oooknuk



Series: Try a little tenderness [3]
Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-10-26 04:18:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10779432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oooknuk/pseuds/oooknuk
Summary: It's the end of their journey for the two lovers. Joe dies.





	Journey's End

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: Joe dies, okay? And it upset me to write, and my beta to read, so in all likelihood it will either bore or upset you. Other than that, just the adult theme, language and the tiniest smidgeon of non-explicit m/m.

The phone was ringing as Duncan re-entered his apartment after his early morning jog. He was still breathing hard as he picked up the receiver.

" 'Lo?"

"Mac." And nothing more.

"Methos?"

"Mac." Silence. "Mac... Joe ... he's gone. He's dead."

Duncan's legs went shaky and he collapsed onto a stool. "Oh, Methos. When?"

"Last ... last ...." Silence, and the other receiver sounded as if it was being muffled against something. "Last night. In his sleep. Mac..."

"Methos, I'll come right away. I can be there this afternoon. Will you be all right until then?"

"Ye...yes. Mac...." The last word was whispered.

"I'll be there in a few hours. Methos, I'm so sorry."

The call was terminated at the other end, and Duncan didn't delay for a second in stripping off, showering, packing a light bag and catching a taxi to the station for the first train to London at eight. Joe and Methos had moved to England fifteen years before, so Methos could work at Kingston University, taking over the new history of technology degree and joking since he was there almost at the invention of the wheel, who would be better to teach the course. They had a large house in Surrey that was specially adapted for Joe's increasing infirmity which finally, in the last couple of years, had prevented him from using his prosthetic legs. Methos had spoken to Duncan on several occasions of his anxieties for Joe's health, but still Duncan was unprepared for the news of his death.

It wasn't until he was on the train that the news really hit. He'd known Joe for nearly forty years, and while they had had their ups and downs - more like the Rift Valley and the Himalayas, he thought wryly - it had been a constant in his life for a long time. Something no Immortal took lightly, and when it was someone like Joe, it meant so much more. Staring out the window at the scenery whipping past, a few discreet tears slipped out at the thought of never again hearing Joe's gravely voice, or his pithy wisdom, or even his wonderful music. Good friends were hard - all too hard - to find, and even harder to keep.

And then there was Methos. It was hard for Duncan to remember his surprise over the union of Immortal and Watcher, but despite the formidable problems the relationship faced, it had endured, and happily, for all those years, lasting through Joe's renewed arguments with the Watchers over his association with two of the most powerful men in the Game, and which had only ended when Duncan and Methos had marched into Watcher Headquarters and threatened to expose the organisation to every Immortal they could find. The Watchers backed right off, and Joe was left in peace until his retirement ten years later. Free at last to pursue his music unfettered, he and Methos had gone on a leisurely tour of the world's music venues. Settling finally in England, Joe had invested in another bar but Duncan knew that in recent years, he had spent more and more time at home.

Now he was gone. Duncan still couldn't believe it, and if he was shocked, Methos must be devastated. The uncharacteristic stuttering on the phone warned Duncan what he might find, but his heart still clenched within him as Methos opened the door, tears still wet on his face. His instinct was to take the older man in a hug, but Methos was holding himself tight as if he might fly apart, and Duncan respected his need to keep things together. In silence, Methos led him into the ground floor room that was their shared bedroom.

Duncan had seen more than enough dead bodies in a long life. Each and every one of them was pathetic, and very often moving, but looking on the closed-eyed, soul-emptied face of a friend was always more than wrenching. Knowing that his friend's lover - his friend also - was watching with agony on his face and in his heart, made it especially horrible. He touched Joe's cold brow, brushing away an imaginary stray hair, and then took the stiffening hand briefly in his own. "Heart attack?" he asked quietly. For over twenty years Joe had been struggling with diabetes and heart trouble, not to mention the toll on his health from injuries and stress during his time as a Watcher.

Methos uncurled but still kept his arms wrapped around him. "No," he said, the first word since Duncan had arrived. "The doctor ... doesn't think so. She put 'heart failure' on the certificate. They're not supposed to do that ... but she really thinks his heart just stopped. No pain. He was, uh, cold when I woke up. Peaceful - like that. Probably never ... never woke." The last words were swallowed.

"The best way, I'm sure he'd have said."

"Quite," Methos said dryly. "That's such a comfort, of course."

"Methos ...." Now Duncan did come to put his hand on Methos' shoulder, but the older Immortal flinched, so he didn't complete the action. Methos looked into his eyes, his own dark and tormented. "What can I do?"

"I'd like to wash him, dress him in his suit - can you help me?"

Encroaching rigor mortis made the task difficult, and the fact it was Joe made it heartbreaking, but between the two, they managed to clean the body up and get him into the suit he had been married in. Methos combed Joe's independently minded grey hair until at last he looked peaceful and well-groomed. Duncan took away the soiled clothes and the bed linen and Joe was laid on top of the bedspread.

"Will you help me bury him?" Methos asked.

The question surprised Duncan. "Here? Is that allowed?" He'd thought the Watchers would want him in their own graveyard.

"We asked for permission almost as soon as we bought the place. Will you?"

"You don't need to ask, I would be honoured. When?"

"Sunset. I ... we ... Mac, I want to sit...."

"Sit shiva?"

Methos' lip curled in an almost smile. "Not in front of a good Irish-American boy, Mac. But ...." The smile died as he looked at Joe's body.

"I understand. Sit, Methos. Talk to me about him."

Duncan pulled up the armchair and another little chair up to the bed, and pushed Methos gently into the more comfortable seat. Then sitting beside him, he took the old man's hand. "What will you remember most?" he asked gently, and that broke the dam.

"Everything," Methos said on a sob. "Every ... little... second. His ... his eyes. His music." Methos' free hand stole across the coverlet and touched Joe. "His hands. Oh, God, his hands, Mac...." Methos bent his head to the bed and cried without restraint. Duncan put his arm across his shoulders, and was not rebuffed this time. Oh, he knew this pain, remembered it as if it was fresh and new to him and not forty years old. He shed a tear or two for his own lost loves, and the friend so recently gone, but he couldn't let emotion take him over. Methos needed him.

Duncan just let Methos weep. There were no words, not when things were this raw. He wasn't under any illusions that Methos would cry himself out today, this week, or even in a month. He rubbed the broad shoulders gently. After a while, he said, "I'll remember all those late nights, drinking whiskey, chewing the fat. He had one of the most open minds of any man I ever knew. Nothing - and I mean _nothing_ \- shocked him. Richie ..." Duncan couldn't help the painful chuckle at the memory, "used to try. Joe thought it was funny, watching him come up with grosser and grosser stuff..."

He felt Methos move, and heard the muffled laugh. "He told me. And then he told the kid about some of his Army days ... Richie went green, he said."

"Yeah, I remember that. I'll miss that."

"I miss _him_ , " Methos said, fresh sobs starting.

"Yes, you will," Duncan said, just holding on. You'll always miss him, he added silently. So will I.

 

* * *

Sunset wasn't for several hours. Methos had calmed long before that, and they had talked quietly about the man lying in front of them. Finally, Duncan looked at the light. "We should get started. Why don't you show me where you want the grave?"

Before Methos led him out the back into their large wooded garden, he asked Duncan to help him carry out a large sack as well as the shovels. "What the hell is this?" Duncan grunted - the sack must have weighed fifty kilograms.

"When we bought the house, Joe said okay but he wanted to be buried on American soil. So for the next anniversary, I bought him some."

Duncan stopped short. "You're kidding!"

"No." Again the ghost of a smile. "Sometimes he'd say he was off to America, and I'd find him out the back, sitting on this, drinking his coffee." Methos shook his head, remembering. "It was a joke he never got tired of. He got more fun out of this bag of dirt than anything else I ever bought him, I swear."

A thought came to Duncan. "What about Amy?" He couldn't recall the last time Joe spoke about his daughter.

Methos grimaced. "Amy made it clear a long time ago that she disapproved of me, and me with him. I'll let her know - that's all she's getting from me. Joe's left her some of his estate - more than she deserves, if you ask me."

"I'm sorry."

"No skin off my nose. Her loss."

They managed to carry the sack to the corner of the garden where an oak sapling was well-established. "You planned this?"

"We planned it. If I'd died first, it would be for me."

Digging the grave to the required depth kept them occupied for nearly an hour, and they didn't speak in all that time. Grave-digging was a skill that most Immortals were unfortunately adept at. "Do you have a coffin?" Duncan asked, even though he was slightly horrified at the idea of the wooden box being stored for years in readiness.

So was Methos, apparently. "Good heavens, no."

Duncan leaned on his shovel. "You know, I'm having a little trouble imagining you and Joe planning all this."

Methos shrugged. "He was always a realist. And besides, like you said, nothing shocked him. It was just natural for him to talk about it."

"He didn't want a funeral?"

"No - he hated them, and since he wasn't religious, he couldn't see the point. He's actually entitled to a military funeral but he refused to countenance that. He wants ... wanted ... me to organise a wake. More fitting, he said."

And so it was, Duncan thought. Between them, they carefully spread the dirt from Joe's homeland on the bottom of the grave. "All done," Duncan said. "Ready?"

Methos nodded and they walked back slowly to the house. He slipped away to wash up, while Duncan cleaned his hands in the sink. He was surprised that Methos had changed into clean clothes as well, but then regretted he had not done so. Methos seemed not to mind, though.

Methos took Joe's hand, kissed it and then slipped the gold wedding band off, placing it next to its twin on his own finger. Again with the ease of long practice, Duncan helped shift the body onto a clean cotton sheet and helped Methos wrap it around tidily. He paused as the last fold was about to cover the face, and waited as Methos bent and gently, reverently, kissed his lover's face. A tear dripped down his cheek onto the cold skin. And then the soft material was carefully draped over Joe's features.

Methos took the shoulders, and Duncan held the bundle at the other end. It looked hardly big enough to be the man he - they - loved so well, for so long. He had grown light in his later years, and the lack of legs made him weigh only slightly more than a large child. Laid in the grave, one would hardly guess that the shroud covered what was once a man. Duncan looked down. "Goodbye, my friend." He added a soft blessing in Gaelic.

The old man stood silently. "Methos? Are you going to say anything?" Duncan asked, unsure of what the two lovers had wanted.

Methos shook his head, but as he threw the first shovel full of dirt into the grave, he collapsed to his knees, staring blindly into the hole. Grimly, Duncan took over, filling the trench and obliterating the mortal remains of Joseph Dawson.

The sight of Methos' grief tore at Duncan and he was openly weeping as he finished the task. He knelt beside Methos and held him close, both men seeking comfort for their loss and their pain.

It was full dark before, by mutual and unspoken consent, they stood. Methos cast a final look at the mound and then walked quickly back to his house. Duncan trailed after him, wondering what now.

Unfittingly, but hardly surprisingly, he was hungry, and could do with a drink too. He doubted Methos had even eaten breakfast and had certainly not had a meal since he had arrived, so he thought he could at least keep Methos' body together. He found the makings of an omelette in the fridge, so he made that and sliced some bread. There was a bottle of red wine on the counter - perhaps for a meal the partners had been planning together - and he opened it, not waiting for the old man to come back before taking a long slug. He found he was shaking - it had been a long and sad fifteen hours since he had got the news, and it wasn't every day one buried one of the best friends one could ever want.

He turned the power off on the omelette and covered it. Methos had been gone a very long time and he was worried. He went in search of his friend, and found him in the bathroom, sitting on the commode, his arms folded and rocking back and forth slowly. "Methos, come and eat something."

Methos shook his head. Duncan came and stood in front of him. "Come with me. Let's have a glass of wine together. For him."

Methos let himself be coaxed up. "I'm sorry," he choked out. "It's just ... I wasn't expecting ..."

"No. I know. Thank God we never do."

He waited patiently as Methos washed his face with shaking hands, and then led him out to the kitchen with a solicitous hand on his shoulder. He poured a glass of the red out, and waited until Methos had drunk at least half before turning the eggs out onto a plate. Methos shook his head. "I can't, Mac. My stomach is churning."

"Some toast?" At Methos' reluctant nod, he cooked a slice of bread and the older man picked at it unenthusiastically.

"I'm sorry, Duncan. I'm not trying to be difficult." Methos pushed the plate away, less than half of the small piece of toast eaten.

"I understand - I couldn't face food for a week after Tessa died."

Methos looked up at him with weary eyes. "It never gets easier."

"Not in my experience. I thought ..."

"What? That I've lost so many, one more doesn't count?"

Duncan realised his mistake. "No ... I just thought ... no, you're right. It just doesn't get easier."

"There are people I should call," Methos said tiredly, wiping his face, and sliding off the stool. Duncan took the wine bottle and followed him into the living room.

"I can help. What about the Watchers?"

"They already know. I called Rodney in this morning to say his farewells."

"Rodney? You're on first names with your Watcher?"

"Sure - he gives me a lift into Kingston every morning." Methos actually smiled a little. "Don't look so shocked, Mac. After I told them who they were dealing with, they made sure I got my pick of their team. He's a nice guy - a PhD in history."

It still startled Mac, but it made a weird sort of sense. "And Amy?"

"God. No. Mac...?" Again, Methos was pleading for help. Duncan checked his watch.

"I'll call her. Is there anyone else who can't wait until tomorrow?"

"Amanda, maybe. There aren't many people left now that he knew. I called work this morning - I don't know if I'm going in tomorrow."

"You're not. Methos, your husband just died - take a week, take two. You'll have a million things to do - you don't know what it's like now, trust me."

"I suppose you're right - I wasn't really that involved with Alexa's affairs apart from the funeral and burial. But I'll have to sort out Joe's will." And then Methos just seemed to collapse, staring at the two wedding bands on his finger. He clutched them with his other hand. "I should have taken a lock of his hair," he whispered, rubbing his eyes furiously.

"What are you worried about?" Duncan said roughly, although he knew exactly what this was. "You're afraid you'll forget him? Afraid you'll forget the colour of his eyes, or how his voice sounded, or how he smelled in the morning?" Methos nodded, not looking at him, tears dripping steadily down. "You won't, Methos. You know that. You're tired and confused and you probably don't even know what's real and what's not at the moment. You're probably thinking it's all a dream."

"I wish it was," he said, barely audible.

"Well, it's not. He's dead, and you're not."

"Shut up, Mac," Methos said angrily, getting up and walking away.

"No. Methos, you should drink some more wine, and get some sleep. I'll call Amy, but for tonight, you don't have any more to do." He walked over to where Methos was standing, hugging himself, and pulled him into a tight embrace. "You won't forget," he said quietly, and held on until the storm passed.

He made Methos drink the rest of the wine, and the old man finally just fell asleep on the couch. Duncan figured he'd probably wanted to avoid sleeping in the bed where Joe had died, anyway. He found some blankets, loosened Methos' belt and took off his shoes, then covered him up. He had a slight dilemma since he didn't have Amy's telephone number, but found it quickly in the orderly office. The woman was stiff, barely this side of rude, and Duncan couldn't judge how the news affected her. She didn't ask after Methos, and when Duncan assured her that her father's husband would be in touch, all she said was, "that's all I would expect." Then she hung up.

That duty done, fatigue hit him. The spare room where he usually slept was made up, but he didn't really like to leave Methos alone downstairs, so he grabbed the comforter and pillow and made himself at home in the easy chair. Not quite as comfortable as the bed, but better than the floor.

The grey light of a rainy English morning showed that Methos was no longer on the couch when he woke. Duncan was stiff but he had slept well enough. He shoved the duvet aside and went in search of the loo before following the buzz of Methos' presence, finding him in the conservatory, staring out at the rain sheeting on the windows. He stood silently beside his friend, watching the water twine down the glass. Finally - "At least you didn't ask how I'm feeling."

"I know how you're feeling. Would you like some coffee?"

"Yes. Let me."

Methos seemed to have retreated further, barely speaking, or looking his way. Duncan made his own breakfast and waited until they were on their third cups of coffee before saying, "If you give me a list, I can make some calls for you."

"Amy?"

"I got her. She'll wait to hear from you."

"My lawyers, you mean."

"Whatever. If you're not up to dealing with paperwork, I can get things started."

Methos shook himself. "No, I should ... I know where it all is." He looked tired, and Duncan wondered how long he had been awake. All his instincts screamed to try and ease the awful pain in his friend, and all his experience told him that it just wasn't possible. Not yet at least.

 

* * *

He stayed a week and left finally at Methos' insistence. He'd offered to have Methos stay with him in Paris, but the old man refused. "I want to be alone. I need to get used to it again."

"You don't ..."

Methos had refused to let him finish. "I _do_. Please, Mac."

And so he had left, heart heavy, grieving for one friend, worrying about the other. When he called her in New York, Amanda had been saddened, but not bowed down by the news - she said she would drop in on Methos soon but made no firm commitments. As for a memorial service or wake - Methos hadn't mentioned it again. It felt strange that there had been no funeral - the Watchers were organising a private service, to which Methos and Duncan were pointedly not invited. A mealy-mouthed gesture from a mealy-mouthed organisation. he'd thought, and swore he would never co-operate with them over anything again. Methos hadn't reacted at all, although the insult could hardly have been greater. Duncan wasn't sure to what, like Amy, they objected more - the fact Methos was male, or that he was Immortal. And he really didn't care - bigotry was bigotry.

He took up the reins of his own business again, but his thoughts were back in England. He really missed Joe, and he missed Methos too. Forty years of a shared friendship seemed to have gone so quickly, and Duncan knew that the Joe Dawsons of this world were rare gems, not often encountered or kept. He called Methos several times, and the old man was polite but distant, not mentioning anything that might need his assistance, and not asking for his company. Duncan wasn't sure if this was a bad sign or not. He only had the experience of Alexa, and his own memories, against which to measure Methos' reactions, and for all he knew, this was the way he always handled grief.

A business meeting took him to London two months later, and he begged a bed for the night in Esher. Methos seemed pleased enough to see him in a subdued way, and they shared a pleasant meal.

"How have things been?" Duncan asked finally.

"Much the same." And apart from Methos looking a little tired, a little sad, this seemed to be true.

"Are the legal things sorted out?"

"Getting there." Methos stared at his coffee.

"Amanda was wondering when we would get together and celebrate his life? These things take a while to organise, if it is more than...."

Methos held up a hand to stop him. "Mac, I appreciate your wanting to do that, but I need to think about things some more. Joe - he had some suggestions about how he'd like to be remembered, and I'm working on them. I'll let you know." And with that, Methos very firmly closed the discussion.

Duncan was reassured by what he saw - true, Methos had fallen asleep on the couch after they'd shared too much wine, but although he was subdued, the house was orderly, he was going to work, and he was getting on with things. They both missed Joe, that was inevitable. But death was a fact of life, ironically even more so for Immortals. Methos had five thousand years of dealing with loss. Duncan was sure he would cope.

 

* * *

Methos was in his thoughts a lot over the next three months, but a combination of the run-up to Christmas and Methos' standoffishness meant Duncan didn't see him at all during that time. He invited Methos to come to Paris for Christmas and was politely and firmly refused, nor was a reciprocal invitation made. Duncan fretted, and thought about turning up uninvited, but he knew there were two schools of thought about dealing with the first significant holidays and anniversaries after the loved one's death, and he guessed Methos had decided for the endurance method.

He regretted that later. He got a phone call one freezing, snowy January night. "Mr MacLeod? It's Rodney Sewell."

"Who?"

"Adam's, ah ... observer."

His _Watcher_? "Yes?" Duncan said cautiously. He did not want to renew connections with an organisation he loathed.

"Sorry to bother you, but it's about Adam..."

"Is he all right?" Duncan asked quickly, his anxieties about the old man immediately rushing to the fore. "Is he ...?"

"He's alive," Rodney assured him hastily. "I didn't mean to alarm you. I'm just ... well, look, you know it's irregular but he's my friend, not just my subject. And I'm worried about him. He took a head tonight. That's the first in thirty years."

"Who? Where?"

"Paul Sherrif, in Kingston. Methos was just finishing his shopping. Mr MacLeod - you've seen him fight, I guess, and he must be good to have lived so long - but I swear to God, if Sherrif hadn't been useless, Me...Adam would be dead."

"He's out of practice, it's been a long time ..."

"No, he just wasn't trying. I think he only won by reflex. It scared the shit out of me. Mr MacLeod - I really think you should come. He's not doing well."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, for a start, he hasn't left the house except to go to work since Joe died. And he used to invite me in for coffee sometimes - he hasn't done that since then either."

"You still give him a ride to work?"

"Not any more. And people at the University are starting to ask about him." There was a pause. "I don't want to overdramatise this but losing Joe was bad enough, I don't want to lose Adam."

Duncan was ashamed that this stranger had to be the one to ask him to come. "I'll be over tomorrow. And Rodney? Thanks. Keep an eye on him - I mean, more than the usual way."

"I always have, Mr MacLeod. He's my friend. They both were."

Mac looked at his watch - he could drive to Surrey tonight, but it would get him there in the small hours, and that would alarm Methos. No, better to make it seem a coincidental visit. He dialled Methos' number, and was worried by the length of time it took for him to answer. When he did, it was clear by the slurred, befuddled responses that the old man was either exhausted or drunk, so he just asked for a place to stay for a couple of nights on the pretext of an imaginary bit of business. When Methos agreed, he didn't prolong the call. Not that Duncan was planning to just stay for a couple of nights - and this time, he wouldn't be leaving alone if he could possibly manage it.

The train was faster than driving, and safer given the atrocious weather. He was in London by six o'clock the following evening, and in Esher by seven. Methos had told him he would be at work so there was no point in arriving earlier. He'd planned to take the old man out to a meal, but when Methos opened the door, he realised that would be a cruelty he could not inflict. "Oh _Methos_ ," he couldn't help saying in pity. The deterioration he saw shocked the hell of him. Methos looked terrible - gaunt, dark circles under his eyes, and the marks of grief so raw it hurt to see it. It was a wonder his employer allowed him to come in to work at all, and Rodney's fears seemed hardly exaggerated.

"Hello, Mac." Methos stood in the doorway, staring at him as if uncertain what to do, and seemed startled when Duncan made to come in.

"How are you, my friend?" Duncan asked, even though he could plainly see. He stepped into the hall and the door closed behind him.

Methos shrugged. "Oh, you know.... Have you eaten?"

"No. You?"

"I was only going to have some soup - I ... had a late lunch." The obvious lie saddened Duncan.

"Does Esher have anything decent in the way of takeaways? Or can I tempt you to go out to a pub?" He knew the local was quiet and private, and had been well-liked by both Joe and Methos.

"Takeaways, yes. Pub, no. I don't want .... I'm not ...." Methos turned away, his sentence unfinished, and apparently confused about what to say next. Things were worse than Duncan had feared.

The house itself was clean and tidy, but as if the occupant had barely disturbed it rather than was keeping it sterile. Duncan dumped his bags in the living room - nothing had changed, including the blankets and pillows on the sofa. That was almost six months of sleeping on the couch, Duncan realised.

Methos was in the kitchen. No sign of the mythical soup, but there was a bottle of wine open - and half empty already. "Mind if I have one?" Duncan asked casually.

Methos waved his hand. "Be my guest."

Duncan poured out a glass, and without asking, began to look for sustenance. He found a tin of tomato soup, some crackers, and some dried dates, and prepared and laid it all out under Methos' silent and unquestioning gaze. He only stirred when Duncan shoved a bowl of hot soup in front of him.

"Uh, thanks. Sorry - my shopping is ... I haven't had time...." Methos stopped talking, not that his voice was particularly clear. He was mumbling, something which was completely uncharacteristic.

Duncan decided to cut to the chase. "Methos, Rodney told me about the Challenge."

"Rodney?" Dull eyes met Duncan's. "Why?"

"He's worried about you. And now I know why. Now you eat that - all of it - and then we can talk."

Methos bent his head, and after a minute or so, spooned some of the bright red liquid up to his mouth. Duncan set to his own scratch meal. He noticed that after only a couple of mouthfuls, Methos' hand went to his wine glass. "Here, why don't I get you some milk?" he said, stealing the glass away.

"What?" For the first time, Methos showed a little animation. "You bloody cheeky ...."

Duncan cut across the incipient tirade. "Shut up. Methos, you've lost too much weight, and you're probably drinking too much. If you saw me like this, you'd feel the same. Now, milk or juice?"

Methos pursed his lips and refused to answer, so Duncan poured him a glass of milk and set it in front of him. "I don't need a fucking nursemaid," he muttered.

"You need a fucking keeper, if you ask me. Now drink that and finish the soup."

"Or what? You'll take my head? Yeah, some threat."

"No, I'll shoot you and arrange some hospital care." Methos stared at him in horror. "You think I'm kidding? Have you _looked_ at yourself lately?"

"I'm Immortal, MacLeod."

"You're _sick_ , Methos, and God knows how you've managed that. Now eat!"

Stung into action, Methos did in fact complete the meagre meal. Pushing the plate away, he looked at Duncan. "So you came here to bully me?"

"I came to see how my old friend was doing, and now I see, I wish I'd come earlier. Methos, people care about you - why didn't you ask for help?"

"For what, Mac? Joe's dead. That's not something you can help with."

"This is because of Joe? Wouldn't that make him proud."

"Shut _up_ , you bastard! You don't know .... Everything is so, so .... _grey_..." Methos said angrily, and then stared down at his hands. "Everything is just ... too much..." he said in a whisper.

Duncan came around the table and put his arm around the bony shoulders. "I know. Every minute is a burden, every word is too much effort. You want the world to go away, and yet it just won't." He felt Methos begin to shake under his arm. "I know how it feels. But you know if you let it become a habit, it'll eat you alive."

Methos still wouldn't look at him, but he was slumped as if even the brief argument had robbed him of his little strength. "Look, why don't you go to bed?" Duncan said. "I don't really have business in London, we can talk."

"I have to go to work tomorrow."

"I think you should take some leave - your boss is probably wondering why you haven't already."

"Got it all planned out, MacLeod?" A touch of the old asperity but no argument, Duncan noted. Methos was at least partly aware how serious things had become.

"I think fast. Now, go to bed."

He'd planned to leave Methos in peace, but that had to change when he saw him about to climb into the untidy jumble on the couch. "Uh uh. A _real_ bed - no wonder you look like you haven't slept in a year. Methos, you have five bedrooms in this place - don't tell me you don't have a bed made up somewhere."

"Only in the guest room," Methos said faintly, looking confused and exhausted. A five year old could take his head now, Duncan thought in exasperation.

"Okay, then it's the guest room bed - you can share with me."

Methos jerked in surprise, but Duncan kept hold of his arm. "No, no excuses. Clean up and come up." He watched Methos head off to the bathroom. Jesus Christ, but sometimes he wished he could spank the old bugger. Sleeping on a couch in his own house - insanity.

Methos was still in the living room when Duncan came back after cleaning his teeth. "Upstairs, old man." Methos led the way up and Duncan ignored him as he undressed and got into bed. "Come on, Methos, shake a leg," he groused as Methos stood, apparently unsure of what to do. "Take your jeans off. Don't make me come over there and undress you."

That startled a grin out of his friend, and he quickly took his outer clothes off. Duncan pulled back the covers. "Get in - hell, it's cold. Don't you have the heating on?"

"That's rich coming from the 'it's just a nice bracing breeze' Highlander," Methos grumbled. "The house is warm enough. Move over."

Duncan was surprised at how quickly Methos fell asleep - so it wasn't that which had caused his look of exhaustion. No, that was explained a few hours later, when the sound of moaning woke him, and he found himself lying next to a shuddering body. Instinctually, he reached over and pulled Methos to him. He murmured soothing sounds and stroked his back and hair. "Come on, Methos. Easy now," he said gently over and over.

"Ma... Mac...?" Methos whispered, sounding almost frightened in the dark.

"I'm here. It's all right."

"I ... I miss ...."

"Yes, I know. It's okay, I got you." He pulled Methos in even closer. "Has it been like this every night?"

"Yes. Oh God ... "

"Shhh. " Without thinking, he kissed Methos gently on the forehead, and he felt the other man stiffen. Oh, shit, he thought. He'd only meant to comfort and had reacted as he might to Amanda, or even a child. But Methos was neither. "Methos, I'm sorry, I didn't mean...."

"Duncan, shut up," he whispered, then kissed him back - on the lips.

"Methos?"

"Mac ... please?" He sounded so young, so unsure.

"Yes. Whatever you need." And then Duncan returned the hesitant kiss more firmly. If this helped, he would do this for Methos, and gladly. His only reservation was what Methos' reaction would be in the morning, but he would deal with that then.

Methos was almost frantic in his caresses, tugging roughly at Duncan's t-shirt and his boxers, and taking his half-aroused cock and his mouth hungrily as if he thought that Duncan might change his mind. It was a curiously emotionless experience for Duncan - he just rode Methos' passion, and helped him reach climax, without any sense of involvement in the desperation driving his bed mate. He felt pity and an overwhelming need to comfort - he understood, he thought, what had brought this on. He only hoped Methos would too.

Afterwards, an exhausted Methos fell asleep in Duncan's arms, but when Duncan awoke, he was gone. It was barely light. Duncan dressed and went hunting - Methos wasn't in the house, so he tried the garden, and as he suspected, found him at the end of the yard by Joe's grave, shivering in insufficient clothing in the bitter cold. "Methos?" Duncan said, touching him on the shoulder.

He shrugged off the touch. "Don't."

It was as he feared. Guilt was making Methos feel even worse. "Don't do this."

"Mac, I'm sorry. I never ... I feel such a _shit_ ," he said vehemently, looking down at the grave.

Duncan decided he had to nip this in the bud and reached again for Methos, not allowing the other man to pull away. "Stop it. Methos, you weren't making love to me last night - you were making love to _him_."

"No ...."

"Yes, you _were_. Look at me." Reluctantly, Methos met his eyes. "You called his name when you came. You're not in love with me, are you?"

"Don't be an idiot, Mac."

"Exactly. And I'm not in love with you. Methos, all you wanted was the pain to stop. I know that. And you slept better - you _look_ better. God, man, do you have any idea how lousy you looked? Still look?" He hugged him closer. "You've been trying to do this on your own. Why?" No answer. "Do you think this is what Joe wanted for you?"

"Joe's dead, MacLeod. You want me to dig him up and you can ask him?" Methos pulled out of Duncan's grip but Duncan held his shoulders tight.

"For God's sake, Methos! Stop this! What do you want me to do? Walk away and leave you like this? One of the two men I held dearest in the world is dead, and now the other one is killing himself. You can't ask me to leave you like this and I won't. What happened last night was natural - look, I slept with Amanda not even as long as that after Tessa died. I _needed_ to - I needed ... God, I just needed a kind person, a warm body. I was so goddamn _alone_ , so lonely. Don't you feel that?" he said desperately.

"All the fucking time," Methos choked out, and then Duncan held on as he cried bitterly, rubbing his back, kissing his hair.

"Now, come on, my friend. It's cold, and you could do with coffee. Come inside and let me look after you," he said gently, and still holding him tightly, he brought Methos back into the warmth of the house. He made the coffee, and then made sure he sat next to Methos. He touched his hand. "Look, I don't mean to say last night meant nothing - I'm glad it was me, I want to help. But I know what it was. I know you might need it again, and I'd be happy if it did. But you're not betraying Joe. You're not causing him any pain. He's beyond all that."

"I know," Methos said miserably. "But at least Amanda loves you."

" _I_ love you, Methos. I'm just not _in_ love - come on, we've been friends for too damn long for any illusions. Right now, I think you need to let go, let someone else take the strain. Don't you feel a little better?"

"Yes, but then I felt bad for feeling good." Methos looked at him and laughed dryly. "Fucked up much?"

"Yeah. A little. You know you aren't deserting him, or being unfaithful to him." He patted Methos' hand. "You're my friend, you always will be."

"And you are mine, Duncan." Methos returned the caress on Duncan's hand. "Thank you." He even looked a little less unhappy, for which small mercy Duncan was grateful.

"You're welcome. Now, it's obvious you're not in a fit state to go to work - the doctor who was treating Joe, do you think they would sign you off for a week or two?"

"I can't ...."

"Yes, you can. Methos, you really do look like shit - and no one is irreplaceable."

In the end, Duncan won - Methos really just was too worn, tired and depressed to fight him. He made the older man an appointment later that morning to see the GP, and told Methos' employer that he needed to take leave one way or another. After he made Methos eat a reasonable breakfast, he sat him down on the couch, sitting next to him.

"Talk to me. What's all this, really? You've lost people before - people you loved just as much."

"But it never gets easier, Mac. I told you. Not after the first, or the fiftieth. Even after five hundred. It's like ...." He spread his hands. "It all adds to the last one. Mac, I don't know if I can make it this time," he said, quiet desperation sharp as knives in his voice.

"You will. You can, trust me, old friend. I know what you mean, and I know it hurts. But in a day, a week, a month, you will feel a little better, and then a little better still."

Methos shook his head. "Not this time. There's only two other people I've had a close relationship with as long or longer than Joe - you ... and Kronos."

Duncan stiffened at the sound of the hated name, but he had to accept the truth of what Methos was saying.

"Was it always this bad when you've lost people before?"

"Yes. No - well, yes ...."

"Methos..." Duncan said patiently. "I'm not going anywhere, and certainly not until I find out what the hell you think you're doing to yourself."

" _Nothing_ \- it's not ... dammit, Mac! Before, there was always someone, family, a community - I was never alone ...."

"You aren't alone now."

"But ... you're in France, and Joe was a guy and ... and ... shit, I don't _know_." Methos pulled away and looked at him in frustration. "Look, it always hurts, you know that. And it was so _good_ with him -I could just be me, just Methos. No secrets, no explanations, no fudges. Duncan, you _know_ how rare that is - there's never been another person I've loved who knew the whole truth. He knew who I was, what I was, and he loved me and I loved him. Joe became my world and when he died, there's nothing... all I can think about is the Game...."

"And losing your head?" Methos didn't answer. "Rodney said you didn't even really try to win that fight."

"Little sneak."

"He's worried about you. It seems to be your role at the moment to worry the hell out of your friends. Now, truth - were you trying to win?"

"No."

The frank admission shocked him. "Methos - why?"

Methos sighed and closed his eyes. "I ... I was just tired - tired of it, I guess. My instincts cut in eventually."

"Joe would have kicked your ass." But Duncan hadn't realised things had got so bad for him. "You can't leave us, leave me."

"I'm sorry."

"Well, don't do it again. But that reminds me - you're unfit as all hell."

"Mac, I haven't fought a Challenge in decades...."

"You really are nuts, you know that? You can't hide here forever." Duncan leaned around Methos so he could look directly at him. "How's this for a plan? We spend a couple of days sorting this place out, and then you come to France for a break and to train."

"No ... I can't ...."

"Can't what? Sort this place out?"

"Leave ...."

"Leave what, Methos?" Duncan knew, but he needed Methos to say it. "Leave what?"

"Him... Joe." Methos covered his face with his hands, and trembling shook his body. Duncan held him close, just waiting.

"Do you need me to say it?" he said finally.

"No," Methos said, his voice still muffled by his hands. "But it still hurts to walk away from him."

"You aren't. You know that. Joe's in here, and here," Duncan said, firmly caressing Methos' head and chest. "Why is this so different?"

"It's not, actually. I always have a hard time physically disconnecting - that's what I stayed in Paris so long. Alexa isn't the only lover I've buried there."

"Well, you have to get past this. And this bed thing. I understand not wanting to sleep there," he said, gesturing to the old bedroom, "but this couch is no good. Did you or did you not sleep better last night in a proper bed?"

"Yes, " Methos sighed. "I knew that was stupid - but the couch doesn't feel as empty as a bed. And it just ... well, it reminded me of being Adam Pierson again." Duncan thought perhaps he understood - Adam Pierson was before Joe's death, before the pain. Sleeping on Duncan's couch, or Joe's - carefree and poor. When life was less unkind.

"And now, Adam Dawson? Where does he sleep?"

"With Joe Dawson." Duncan just looked at Methos. "Okay, yes, I know. I just ... didn't want to make up another room and being downstairs without him doesn't feel right."

"Well, you can share with me until you feel up to making up a bedroom for yourself. What are you going to do with your old one?" For a moment, Duncan thought Methos had plans for turning it into some sort of shrine - he'd seen that sort of reaction before.

To his relief, Methos had other ideas. "You know it was the library, but you know Joe couldn't manage the stairs any more, and he hated those lift things. My books are crammed upstairs - we could bring them down."

"Good idea. Okay, after you see the doctor ...."

"You do realise that in five thousand years, I have _never_ had to do that," Methos said dryly.

"Five thousand years ago, you didn't need a sick note. You know her, don't you?"

"Of course, she's been Joe's ... I mean, she treated Joe for ten years."

"Then she'll understand." Methos suddenly grinned. "What?"

"You - you just sweep in and take over. And I just let you. Why is that?"

"Because you love it and you haven't had enough of it." Duncan rubbed Methos' thin cheek with his knuckle. "You aren't alone any more. You never were." Methos closed his eyes, and Duncan ruffled his hair, noting he was wearing it very short again. Probably to make himself look older, since the young people were wearing theirs longer these days. "I wish you'd let me help. I really needed to do something."

"Why?" Methos opened his eyes and looked at him.

"You weren't the only one who lost someone, you know. I've known him for a nearly half a century."

Methos held Duncan's hand in his lap. "Mac, I'm sorry. I didn't think ... I only could feel my pain - I never thought about you. Some friend, huh?"

"You're only human, old man. Me too."

Methos sighed, and Duncan moved closer. "If Joe could see us now," Methos said. "He used to wonder why I wanted him and not you. I tried to explain why he was so special to me, but I think he thought I wanted another Immortal for a lover."

"Being Immortal doesn't make you a good partner. But I would never have said no to you, you know that." He kissed Methos' cheek. "Friends are harder to keep than lovers."

"Mac, you don't have to _sleep_ with me to keep me as a friend."

"I know that, you daft bugger. But I felt the same about him, you know. If he'd wanted me, I wouldn't have turned him down."

Methos laughed. "Oh, God, I'm so glad he can't hear you say that - can you imagine what Jack Shapiro would have said if Joe had been screwing his assignment, not just talking to him?" It hadn't been a particularly amusing interlude in Duncan's long friendship with Joe, but suddenly the sour little face of the long-dead senior Watcher came to mind, and the idea of him finding out something like that made Duncan grin.

"The Watchers are full of shit, you know that."

"Yeah, so did Joe in the end. Not the field workers - the high and mighties."

"Methos - that service, you never said anything...."

"Mac - what could they do, honestly? We made fools of them, and more than that, Joe was openly flouting his oath by being married to me. I'm actually surprised they had the service - they could have ignored it completely."

"But not to invite his spouse ...."

"Well - I don't care, and neither should you." He sighed again. "I don't have the energy to get worked up about crap like that any more."

"And why do you suppose that is? Lack of sleep, lack of decent food - not to mention the drinking...."

Methos got up impatiently. "Oh, please, MacLeod. Don't presume to preach at me. I'm just a little depressed. It won't kill me."

"It damn near did, you idiot! How could you let things get to the point where even a Challenge doesn't penetrate?"

"What difference does it make?" Methos suddenly yelled.

"A lot, to me!" Duncan shouted back, getting to his feet, but Methos just held his hands up, shaking his head.

"Don't start, Mac. " And then he walked out of the room.

"Damn it," Duncan said softly.

 

* * *

I find myself in the kitchen, not really sure why we started shouting at each other. Mac's got my best interests at heart - there's absolutely no doubt about that. And he's right - things _have_ got bad. At the same time, what the hell do people expect? Immortal or not, thirty-five years is not nothing, Joe was not nothing. I curse the fact that formal mourning went out of fashion in the twentieth century. In every century before that, and in every culture, the bereaved was allowed a time of withdrawal, to deal with their grief and for others not to have any expectations of them. I would have been able to become a recluse in peace - God knows I'd done it enough times in the past. I'm trying to remember if it was really this painful before - once or twice, I'm sure. But ... this time... a few times in my long life - a very few - I've lost the desire to go on. Fortunately, the times when the point actually came to me doing anything about it were even rarer.

Do I really want to die? Actually - no. Mac's arrival reminded of me of one of the reasons I pulled myself out of my last bout of self-indulgent misery. But he doesn't understand - sure, he was with Tessa for years, but he had Richie, he had Charlie de Salvo, even Horton and the Watchers, always pulling him back into the real world. No one _needs_ me - no one really gives a damn. Except maybe him.

Oh, do listen to yourself, Methos, you self-centred, maudlin, self-pitying twit. Impatiently, I gather the dishes up from breakfast. I guess Mac's having a shower, but our water system can cope. I wash up, the simple task giving me a surprising amount of calm. Joe and I never bought a dishwasher, both of us liking to wash up by hand with the other talking, sitting at the table. Of course, in the last few years, it was mainly me washing up - he could manage from the wheelchair, but it wasn't worth the hassle.

Oh, Joe. More goddamn _fucking_ tears - cry me a river doesn't even begin to describe the volume of saline I've shed since he died. A hand descends on my shoulder and for a deceptive second I think it's him, the way he would come up behind me. I turn to kiss him, and almost cry again when the concerned friendly eyes that meet mine are brown, not blue. Mac sees my expression. "I'm sorry - did you think ...?" he says kindly, apologetically.

"Yes. Sorry." I wipe my eyes with my sleeve since my hands are still covered in suds. To my shock, he uses his thumbs to wipe the last traces of moisture from my eyes. I have to admit, Mac touching me feels good - I've missed that part of marriage so much it physically hurts. "Thanks."

"Would you like me to finish up? Your appointment's in an hour."

"I'm nearly done - we can be there in five minutes anyway. You want to make some fresh coffee?" Coffee and booze are about the only things I feel enthusiastic about lately.

I finish up and have my own shower. Looking at myself in the mirror with Mac's eyes, I can see why he's so desperately worried about me. My God - I've seen dying men who look better than this. I take the trouble to shave properly and neatly. At least I don't have to exaggerate any signs of aging - I could pass for sixty. Maybe letting the Highlander look after me wouldn't be a bad thing - for either of us.   
    
 

The doctor, Eleanor Carter, is kind. She was wonderful with Joe, and the two of them used to spend most of the visit swapping stories about the States, where her mother had been born and where she had visited many times. She takes my blood pressure, asks how I've been sleeping, what I've been eating, how much am I drinking. She isn't surprised at anything I tell her. "Now, Adam, your friend is right, you know. Take some time with him, let him pamper you a bit. Getting away might be good - not the weather for it though, is it?" It's been a particularly severe winter, she's right, and I never did like winter sports. "Paris sounds a lovely idea."

"I, uh, spent a lot of time there when I was younger."

"Still, always something new, isn't there? Now, I don't want to prescribe anything for you, unless you really want it - sleeping pills perhaps?" she says dubiously.

"No, not yet. Mac read me the riot act about where I've been sleeping, and that might help." I don't tell her about the other thing we tried.

"He sounds like a very good friend, Adam. You need people like him. I'm going to sign you off for a month ...."

"A month!"

"Of course. You need the time. Don't kid yourself. People take years to get over the loss of a spouse, and I know you and Joe were really in love. He told me about it often enough."

The old bugger, I grin reluctantly. "Yes, we were. I really miss him, Eleanor."

"Yes, I know. So do I. If you feel you're ready to go back to work sooner, come and see me and I'll clear you, but I really think a month is about right. Now, off you go. Let this MacLeod fellow take charge. It won't hurt, honest."

"You doctors always say that," I grumble.

"And how you'd know that, I have no idea, Adam Dawson. If all my patients were like you, the NHS might break even occasionally."

I show her certificate to Mac when I came out of the waiting room. "Maybe I should frame it - definitely a first."

"And the last, I hope," he says fervently.

The weather has, if anything, got worse, and even driving the short distance back to the house is verging on the suicidal. I would have stocked up, but my groceries had been wiped out in Paul Sherrif's Quickening. If Mac is serious about camping with me until he's happy I'm back on the straight and narrow, we might be grubbing up roots from the garden before long. Mac has obviously thought of that too, because without asking he deviates to the local High Street, ignoring my grumbling about someone's vehicle sliding on the ice and hitting the car. I trail in behind him - the man is like a fucking tsunami, unstoppable and unignorable. We've known each other long enough that he doesn't even have to ask what I want, and only checks with me that I have enough loo paper and such.

"I'm not an invalid, MacLeod," I complain as we pile the seemingly endless bags of shopping into the car.

"Yes, you are," he smirks. "It's official."

I have to smile - he's enjoying this. And Joe would laugh himself sick, I think. Damn, every thought comes back to him. How long was it before that stopped being the case with Alexa? Years - and I had less than twelve months with her. The truth is I've been thinking of her nearly as much as Joe these last few months. All my lost loves. Immortal memory, perfect compared to the average mortal's, is a blessing and a curse.

By the time we get home, snow is starting to drift, and the forecast is for more of the same. Over the last thirty years, the climate in Britain has slowly cooled, and the winters have become more and more severe. Had Joe been younger when we moved here, I think I might have tried to persuade him to move back to America, or even to somewhere like Australia, but he had become so settled. He really loved being married and stable, after long years living above bars and living almost like a gypsy. I have to confess it's my preference too - although every century or so, I usually spend a decade or so wandering, just to keep hidden. I have little desire to go walkabout now - I don't want to leave Joe, I enjoy my job, Esher is far enough away from the mainstream that the Game has left me alone for a long time (that idiot Sherrif was pure bad luck). Only the weather - and Mac being in Paris - might make me leave.

The warmth of the house enfolds us, and the relief from the bone-chilling cold is cheering in itself. Mac heads straight for the kettle and after that, the living room fireplace which is little used since we have efficient central heating, although like most people, I keep a good stock of coal and wood for emergencies and power cuts, which seem to be all too frequent these days. Scots love their fires though, and soon it's roaring away. I put the groceries away, shaking my head a little at Mac's extravagance - but he did pay for it - and he joins me to help. Again without asking, he opens another tin of soup and starts heating it. It's at this point I realise the truth of what he and Eleanor Carter have been saying - letting him take the strain _does_ help. After months and months of trying to do it all on my own, it suddenly hits me that I am not alone any more, and that, perversely, makes me teary again. He looks at me in concern. "What's wrong?" So gentle, so kind.

I shake my head. "Nothing. Just ... having you here is good."

He reaches across the counter and touches my cheek with his big, blunt hand. "It's good for me too." I close my eyes. His touch is so like .... I have to stop this. That way madness lies, if I can't distinguish between Mac and Joe. "Methos, are you all right?"

"I'm fine. Still tired. Maybe I'll go lie down and wait for lunch."

He looks worried. It's the simple truth - I _am_ tired, I'm constantly tired. Partly it's the poor sleep and partly it's battling the mood swings, which can have me laughing and then near tears within seconds. The comfortable couch and the warmth of the fire seduce me, and Mac has to wake me up. "Lunch ready?" I mumble, blinking, and he laughs at me.

"Two hours ago it was ready, old man."

"Really? Sorry, Mac." I sit up, and rub my face. How childish of me.

"Why? Are you in a hurry to go somewhere? We're snowed in, Methos. You wouldn't be going to work even if you wanted to." He goes off to fetch my belated meal. Outside, the snow is falling heavily - I remember weather like this in nineteenth century London. It suits my mood.

He returns with two mugs - one with soup, the other with hot chocolate. I'm not that hungry, but the meal sits well on my stomach. It seems such a long time since I felt any sort of appetite, or any enthusiasm for eating at all. Mac looks pleased as I finish the food, and takes the cups away - this coddling thing seems to be second nature to him. He sits on the sofa next to me, and to my surprise, puts a comfortable arm around my shoulders. The easy affection touches me to my very core. "How are you feeling?" he asks, settling and clearly preparing to spend a while in this position.

"Better. Thanks."

"Good. Now just take it easy. I called the University, and Rodney, and there's nothing you need to do or to worry about. Just relax."

"Yes, mum."

"Shut up, junior."

 

* * *

To Duncan's relief, Methos took his arm and the order with good grace. To tell the truth, he was a little lost here - the sort of platitudes and comfort he would offer Joe if the situation was reversed, seemed incredibly trite when dealing with someone of such great age. All right, Methos had let himself go, but he also knew it - it was almost as if he was doing it deliberately.

He was no expert at this sort of thing. He was working purely by instinct - Methos was tired, he offered him rest. He needed to eat, Duncan made him food. He was lonely and deprived of affection, and Duncan knew how that could feel. So far, so good. Maybe just an interlude of peace would be enough for the old man to recover his equilibrium. He'd made assumptions about Methos' ability to deal with this which were unwise even in the light of his own experience. Grief took so many forms, and it was wrong to think that five thousand years would steam roller those differences into one homogenous, easily coped with emotion.

"How's the love life?" Methos asked suddenly.

"Is this a leading question?" Duncan joked. It raised a grin out of his friend. "Nothing new - I still see Erin occasionally, Amanda keeps her hand in."

"So to speak."

"Yeah. You know her."

"Unfortunately. You should get married, Mac."

"What, to the first passing female?"

"Knowing you...."

"Watch it, Methos. It's your fault, you know."

"Me?" Methos turned around to look at him.

"Sure - having seen you with Alexa, and Joe, I figured I'd wait for the real thing again. There's no substitute."

Methos sighed and sat back again. "No, there isn't. I suppose I was lucky to find two in the same century - usually I'm lucky to fall in love like that once every two or three hundred years."

"Worth the wait?"

"Oh yes. Definitely. You know that, don't you?"

"I think I do. Sometimes...."

"What?"

"Well, after Tessa, and Little Deer, I wonder if the best are always going to be taken from me early."

"Those deaths are not on your hands, Mac. I've lost wives to violence many times, others to illness. So few lived to three score years and ten."

"And yet Alexa and Joe both died natural deaths."

"You really bought into that gypsy woman's crap, didn't you?" Methos said a little impatiently.

"Well ...."

"Look, MacLeod - prophecies about Millennial demons, I can just about believe, but that there is some cosmic force interfering with your love life, I can't accept and neither should you. You're not a tenth of my age, and you've had some wonderful relationships with people. Far more than I'd had in the same time. There's a reason your Chronicles were going for fifty bucks a copy at Watcher Headquarters."

Duncan wasn't sure if he should even ask if Methos was joking. "Still, I envy you. Such a long, happy life with him. I thought ten years was a long time."

"If you want a truly long relationship, you need to be with one of us, and finding an Immortal who isn't barking mad is some job. Mind you, I might be available one of these days."

Duncan was pleased Methos could joke about his single state. "Thanks, but no thanks. I'm not like you, I don't go for older men."

Methos chortled. "That's because you fear comparison, MacLeod. What about a Watcher - that's nearly as good as an Immortal, and Rodney's free."

"Not in this or any other lifetime, Methos. God, you have an evil mind."

He cuffed his friend lightly then poked the fire into life before settling back companionably on the sofa. Outside, the snow made it appear as if night had nearly fallen, and it wouldn't be an hour before it was actually dark. "Mmmm, this is nice," Methos said, pulling the sofa blanket around them both. "I suppose you'd rather be up and sorting out rooms," he said unenthusiastically.

"Not really. I can use a break too - things have been busy."

They talked together for a couple of hours as the room darkened, lit only by the flickering firelight. Methos made no move out of Duncan's embrace, and holding him felt good, and right, at this stage in their long, at times troubled friendship.

Finally, he stirred. "So what do you fancy for supper?"

Methos shrugged. "I really don't care, Mac. That's half the problem."

"Okay, so I'll choose." Duncan frowned. "It's decisions, isn't it?"

"Yeah. Mostly. And everything else." But then Methos smiled. "Thanks, Mac. I can't remember the last time I felt so at peace."

Duncan ruffled his hair. "You're welcome."

Fortuitously, the pasta had just about cooked and the sauce was ready when the power went out. "Oh, dammit. Every time it bloody snows," Methos groused, tossing Duncan a torch. "That's it until tomorrow, I'm almost sure. Twelve hours is the best they've managed the last five years."

"Never mind, the dinner's ready and we can eat by the fire."

Methos lit a couple of candles and they sat cross-legged with their bowls in the living room. "Admit it, you love this," Methos teased.

"Oh, that's rich, coming from you. Kinda romantic, don't you think?"

"Mac," Methos suddenly looked serious again. "I'm not ... did you think ...?"

"Methos, I'm just teasing, I'm sorry. It's my clumsy way of saying last night doesn't bother me."

His friend's face broke into a relieved smile. "So you said." Losing the smile, he added, "I have to say I surprised myself - I haven't even woken up hard in all that time. "

"Too much information, okay, Methos? Don't kill yourself over it. You're not exactly repulsive."

"Well, thank you, MacLeod, and you don't make me vomit either." Methos smiled at him in the low light. "You have a gift for giving life, did you know that?" Duncan thought that was horribly ironic, but Methos must have noticed the hesitation. "You do, you know. Sometimes I think all I can do is midwife the dying, but you inspire people to want to live."

"Come off it."

Methos just shrugged, then put his empty plate onto the coffee table. "So what do you want to do now?"

Too early for bed, and anyway, Methos was in a good mood, so it was a shame to waste it. "Chess," Duncan said firmly.

Methos grinned wickedly. "And here I was, hoping ...."

"Behave, or you don't get dessert."

"This is the unattractive aspect of your nice side, you know that? Anyway - what have you got stuffed up your sleeve?"

"Ah hah, you have to wait."

Methos flipped him the bird, and climbed to his feet to find the chess pieces. He cocked a sardonic eyebrow at the bowl of ice-cream that awaited him. "More comfort food?"

"I just like ice-cream, so sue me. I'll eat it if you don't want it."

Methos clutched his bowl possessively and theatrically to his bosom. "Hands off. Don't even think about kidding about chocolate ice-cream."

"Kid is right," Duncan muttered. "If I'd known it took as little as this to cheer you up, I'd have sent you a food parcel from France and saved myself the train fare."

"It's not just the food, Mac," Methos said, soulful eyes serious.

"I know," Duncan acknowledged gently. "So, want to toss a coin?"

Methos was white, and soon the battle was joined, no quarter being given. Duncan was well-used to the old bugger's dirty style of play, but he had to admit to being stumped an hour in, and steepled his hands in thought. "Missing Darius?" Methos said suddenly.

"How the _hell_ did you figure that out?" Duncan said in astonishment.

Methos laughed. "Your hands. He used to do that when I had him on the run."

"You used to beat him?"

"Oh regularly. He got rather stuck in his ways, did Darius."

"He could afford to, living in a church."

"We can't." Methos sighed.

"What?"

"Oh, nothing. Just thinking how nice it would be not to have to keep changing, learning new habits, new languages. Just settle on one life and live it."

"Not even mortals have that luxury now."

"I know. Don't mind me, MacLeod, I get like this sometimes."

"Oh, I don't mind - checkmate." Duncan grinned. "You shouldn't play chess when you're distracted, old man."

Methos stared at the board in comic incredulity and then glared up at his friend. "You bastard!"

"Now, now. I didn't realise you were such a sore loser, Methos."

"But ... but... that was cheating!"

"Yeah, good, don't you think?"

Methos smiled suddenly. "And here I was thinking there was no hope for you, Mac. Another?" But then he yawned, and that and the fact the fire had died down decided Duncan.

"Bed, I think. Will the house stay warm enough?"

"Oh, yes, I should think so - we spent enough on insulation and triple glazing. The power will be back tomorrow and there's a fireplace in the bedroom ... oh, I mean, your room ...." The old man looked embarrassed.

"I thought we agreed you would sleep with me until we made a proper bedroom for you," Duncan said gently.

"Yes, but ... Mac ...."

Duncan reached across the coffee table and touched Methos' shoulder. "Hey, don't make a big thing of it. If it bothers you, we can fix a bed up right now, or I can sleep down here. You need the rest more than me."

Methos looked young, and vulnerable, in the candlelight - his need for comfort, company, warring so obviously with his pride and his desire to preserve fidelity to Joe. "Methos - what would he tell you to do?"

"I don't know," he said quietly.

"Yes, you do. Do you think he'd be hurt?"

"Yes... no, not really."

"No, he wouldn't be. But he _would_ want you to be well and happy and loved by those he left behind. That's me. Oh, Methos...." He crawled over to where Methos was now weeping silently. "I didn't mean to upset you. Don't." He pulled him close, and his own eyes grew wet. Why did real love have to bring real pain? Was this all Immortal existence really came down to? Just a collection of memories of lost friends, lovers, husbands and wives, students?

Methos sniffled. "Shit. I'm sorry, Mac ...." He scrubbed at his face.

"Stop saying that, Methos. Look, come to bed. We can be as chaste as nuns, I'm not a sex maniac," and heard a muffled, damp chuckle. "Don't believe everything you read in my Chronicles."

 

* * *

It might take me a hundred years to retrieve my reputation in Mac's eyes, and only the fact he tends to see all of his friends as precious but slightly brain-damaged children saves me from dying of embarrassment at my emotionality. God, it only takes the mention of Joe's name, of how much ... what we felt ...

Part of me wants to tell Mac to fuck off, get out of our home, leave me to my memories. The rest of me is desperate for him to stay, to help me through this pain which is beginning to drown me, and if anyone can save a drowning man, it's the Highlander. He doesn't seem to mind my lapse, or think less of me - one side-effect of all that we have shared over so many years of friendship. He's seen me weep (although never so often), I've seen him at the nadir of depression more than once. But I want to resurrect my own sense of self-sufficiency - I'm so bloody tired of ... tired ... damn, how did things get this bad?

Mac tugs me up and pushes me gently up the stairs. I keep forgetting I've resolved to let him be in charge - when I remember, I feel better immediately. Self-sufficiency's overrated anyway.

Everything is so quiet - the snow muffles any sound from outside, which is more silent than usual because of the power cut. Mac's breathing is the loudest sound in the room. The man is like a furnace - not like Joe at all. In fact it's a relief that in many ways it is very unlike being with Joe - Mac smells different, feels different. If I hadn't been so dazed and confused last night I don't think anything would have happened. It's not that Mac is unattractive, either in the abstract or to me, or that I don't feel affection and love for him. But endangering our friendship for a comfort fuck - or more - isn't worth it.

Being held close is painful and wonderful at the same time. I wish ... oh God, I wish it was Joe holding me... it really hurts ... but he knows that. It's hard sometimes to remember that he's lost almost as many people in four hundred years as I did in two thousand. "Methos, it's okay. I know this feels weird - if you're uncomfortable, I'll go downstairs," he says gently, stroking my hair.

'No, don't - please, Duncan, I need ... I want...." I almost panic at the idea of being alone again.

"Calm down, calm down," he says soothingly. "I'm not going anywhere." He pulls me onto his hairy chest, and rubs my back slowly in rhythm with his slow, deep breathing, lulling me, dragging me down into sleep.

The subtle sounds of the house coming back to life with the power wake me, but not Mac who has turned over in his sleep and is now snoring quietly. I slip out of the bed and look out the window to the garden - to the grave. Sorry, Joe, I tell him - I don't think I'll get out to see you this morning, there's just too much snow. Downstairs, I switch off the unnecessary lights and tidy up the small clutter. To my surprise, I'm hungry, as well as in need of coffee which is no surprise. Mac could sleep for hours, I guess, so I make a piece of toast and a small pot of coffee for myself and eat in the conservatory so I can look at the snow which is still falling a little. I fight the tug to trudge out to the grave - I know what Mac would say and I already knew that it wasn't healthy to fixate on the mortal remains of my husband. Instead, I swallow the last bitter dregs of coffee and decide that I'd better clear the path up to the house or we'll be snowed in.

Mac comes out to watch me. "Need a hand?" he asks casually.

"Nearly done - why don't you have a shower?"

"Already did - have you had breakfast?"

"Yeah. I won't be long, Mac."

"Okay." I bend to my task again. "Methos?"

"What?" and get a face full of snow. "You fucking _turd_ , MacLeod!" I grab my weapon and the fight is on. If only the neighbours knew they were getting an eyeful of nearly six thousand years worth of total childishness. Mac is actually giggling as I wrestle him to the ground and stuff ice down his shirt.

"You're a dirty fighter, old man," he gasps, his face full of glee.

"Tell me something we both didn't know," I growl. I pull him up. "You are impossible - I can't take you into polite society at all, you barbarian."

"Tell me something ...." I threaten him with a handful of snow to make him shut up. "All right, all right. You win."

"Huh," I grumble.

"Bully," he mutters.

"I heard that."

"You were meant to."

"MacLeod ..."

"Loosen up, Adam."

"Oh, I'm loose, all right. So loose, I'm going to let _you_ finish while I check the mail." Shoving the snow shovel into his hands, I stalk into the house, carefully hiding my grin. Barbarian, I think fondly.

Most of the emails can wait, but there's a vidmail which surprises me, not the least by its apt timing. Mac comes in not longer after and once I prevent him from squeezing out his damp hair over me and my computer, I let him watch the message.

"Who's this guy?"

"Jordan Nash. He lives in London. Joe said he was one of the finest blues guitarists in Britain but no one's heard of him much. I should have let him know about Joe, but ... well, I didn't. What do you think?"

"About going up to see him? I'd like to - but how do you feel? Rodney said you haven't exactly been a social butterfly lately."

"I'm going to have to explain to that young man the meaning of the words 'observe and record', I think. It would help to have you there, Mac, but actually ... you remember I told you Joe had an idea for what he'd like us to do? Well, Jordan can help us with that."

I vidmail Jordan back - something I don't do much, I really don't like recording my image anywhere, but Jordan's safe and he'll think it odd if I don't. We won't be able to get into London for a week according to the forecasts, but having that as a goal actually helps amazingly. Sensing my revived interest, and no doubt wanting to take advantage of my improved mood, MacLeod gently and insistently gets me to work sorting out the house. He's a little surprised that I'd already disposed of Joe's clothes. "What did you think I'd do, Mac? I could hardly wear them and he had awful taste, you know that."

He laughs. "No worse than a certain grad student, if I remember."

"That was just local colour. Anyway, his stuff was pretty ratty - even the charity shops didn't want them. I, uh, kept a couple of sweaters," I mumble, and he laughs kindly again.

"You and bloody jumpers. Were you frightened by an Inuit as a child, I wonder?"

"I have no idea."

We debate what to do with the bed, which is relatively new, and decide we can, between us, get it upstairs if we first clear the temporary library. "If we break our necks falling down the stairs, at least it's only temporary," he jokes. He's in a good mood, which lifts mine.

"Yeah, but if we don't get out from underneath, I can see some very surprised archaeologists in a few years' time being shocked by our 'corpses'."

"What a cheerful sod you are."

We laboriously clear the old bedroom of furniture - I can't say I'm sorry, I always felt vulnerable with all the windows and being on the ground floor. My hundred of books have us trudging up and downstairs endlessly, with me pausing occasionally over a forgotten treasure, or to make sure Mac doesn't see some of my more personal records - or Joe's. We haul bookcases downstairs, bed and dresser and wardrobe upstairs, and make up the bed and shift all my clothes. Mac works me all day, until we're both dropping. "You're out of shape," he says, collapsing onto the sofa.

"Me? You gave up first," I point out.

"Yeah, but they're your books - you always put more effort in for them."

"Well, I'm bloody knackered so don't expect me to do any more today," I say firmly. Another meal out of a box, I think. I can't be arsed to cook, and I can't expect Mac to.

"Want a drink?" I ask.

"I'd love a beer."

"Sorry - we don't have any. Your fault, you forgot," I say smugly.

"Actually, I was thinking about going to the pub."

"In this weather, are you crazy?"

"Aw, come on, Methos. A little snow won't kill us. I've seen it ten times worse than this."

"You're out of your mind - and everyone else will know it too. They've been telling people not to go on unnecessary journeys for days!"

"And this is necessary. Please?"

I hesitate - I haven't been to that pub since .... "Okay," I agree with false cheerfulness. He goes to wash up and change his sweater - I just wipe my suddenly clammy hands on my jeans.

He throws me my heavy coat and scarf and leads the way to the door, but a vision of Joe doing almost exactly the same thing in the same way paralyses me. "Methos?"

"Mac, I can't go," I blurt out.

"Methos...."

"Look, I'm sorry," I babble, backing away from his concern. "I know all the shit about getting back on the horse and bicycle and the log, but it's just too soon and there'll be people there...."

"Methos ...."

"And dammit, who are you to decide when it's been long enough ...?"

"Methos!" he shouts, and grabs me by the shoulders, shaking me.

"What?!" I yell back, breathing hard, ready for a fight.

"I was just going to say, a bottle of wine here is fine by me."

"Oh," I say, all the adrenaline subsiding in an instant. And then my knees feel shaky, and my face is hot and my vision all blurry. "Mac ... I...."

"Shhh," he says, hugging me close. "It's okay," I hear his deep voice rumble in his chest. "It was just an idea."

"I'm such a bloody fool," I mumble, wiping my eyes on his coat.

"No, you're not. It's all right." He pats my back and doesn't let me go until _he's_ ready. Which is fine by me.

"I think we bought a pizza. How about that and a bottle of plonk de plonk?"

"Anything," I agree hastily. With a last caress to my hair, he steps back, takes my coat out of my hands and hangs his and mine up carefully. Then he goes calmly to the kitchen to make our supper as if me throwing a tantrum is entirely normal.

After I calm down, I wash my face in the downstairs bathroom. Methos, you're losing it, do you realise that? Maybe it is time I went far away, but even as I think this, my heart feels like it's turned to a lump of ice within me. Leave my home? Again? Leave Joe? No. There is nothing but my own mental state driving me - no pressures of the Game, the international conflicts have touched this area but lightly, and my present identity is good for at least ten years or more. If I can just beat this ... grinding, fucking depression ... I can stay. And I need to stay. I've been happy here and not just because of Joe. True happiness has been a surprisingly rare state for me over five thousand years.

I wander out to the kitchen where Mac is making a salad, and pushes me over a glass of wine. He starts chatting about my books, and seems prepared to ignore my megrim, for which I am utterly grateful. Slowly I relax again.

He stays close, but not oppressively so, all evening, and when I say, without showing any of the reluctance I feel, that I'll sleep in my newly established bedroom, he only touches my shoulder and tells me to sleep well. For an irrational moment, I want him to talk me out of it, but I have to do it sometime, and I have no more excuses.

The room feels wrong, the bed is cold and the sheets embrace me like a grave. Only the fact I am tired and coming down from my emotional trip allows me to get to sleep after an hour or so, but I wake with my heart pounding in my chest and the feel of Immortal presence close by. My face is wet again. "Methos?" Mac calls softly.

"I'm okay," I mutter.

"I know," and the bed dips and then his warm, heavy weight is sliding under the blankets next to me. "You were moaning again."

Bloody hell. "Did I wake you up?" What a moronic question, Methos. Mac laughs quietly.

"Of course you did, go back to sleep." And then he pulls me into his warm, heavy embrace and promptly falls asleep himself.

 

* * *

The weather thawed, and as it did Methos slowly drew back from the brink of self-destruction - and what pleased Duncan was that Methos needed so little from him to do it. He could go home in a couple of weeks or so and be assured that his friend would get on with his life. In the mean time, he was looking forward to spending some quiet time with Methos. He needed the break, and he needed to help Methos create a fitting monument to Joe.

To that end, once the snow had disappeared in the face of the rather more usual English rain and wind, they caught the train to London and the tube up to North London to see Jordan Nash, who lived in one of the few remaining sixties tower blocks, ironically now listed buildings but still as ugly as sin, and half as interesting. Jordan's Boxer-Alsatian cross dog greeted them enthusiastically. "Heya, Charlie," Methos said, grabbing the dog happily and letting himself be licked.

"Hi, Adam." Jordan wheeled himself across the floor. Duncan was shocked to see that the musician was, like Joe, an amputee. "Hi, MacLeod, right?"

"It's Duncan. Jordan?"

"You got it, man." He grasped Duncan's hand strongly, and then motioned them to sit. "You want a beer, guys?"

"Sure," Methos said, and headed into the kitchen to fetch the booze. It was pretty obvious he'd been here more than once.

Bottle in hand, Methos sprawled on the couch with Charlie lying adoringly across his thighs. "So, man, how's things?" Jordan asked. "I'm sorry as hell about Joe. He was the best."

Duncan watched Methos carefully, but the older man stayed relaxed. "He was, he really was. Jordan, do you remember that gig we did in Liverpool?"

"You kidding?" Jordan said, his dark eyes sparkling. "That was the best night ever. So why do you bring that up?"

"I've got some digi's of that - they sound good. And I always thought that I'd ... Joe should ... put them out, but he said there wasn't enough for a commercial recording. What I was thinking - maybe we could mix them now, add some new stuff from his friends, you, Enrique, Pete."

"Hey, that's great, Adam. How many gigas you got?"

"About an hour and a half, but there's some stuff that's not clear - I figure we need at least 30 minutes of new tracks."

Duncan listened in fascination as between them, Methos and Jordan made plans for a qube and got a list of possible participants. It was the most animated Methos had been since Joe died, and although Duncan had feared the discussion would lead to painful memories for him, it seemed the thought of practical action had re-energised the grieving man, and Duncan had to admit there was no tribute more fitting to Joe than an evening of music.

As he watched Methos and Jordan talk, the Immortal displaying a surprising amount of knowledge about the music business, Duncan felt a slight twinge of jealousy. This was a part of Joe - his world - that he had only brushed the edges of. Their relationship as Watcher and Immortal had informed the character of their friendship, and he supposed they had both wanted to preserve a little of their own privacy, their own lives from each other. Methos had been in the happy position of not having to or wanting to.

They talked for hours and as it grew late, Jordan looked at his living room clock with regret. "I suppose you guys couldn't be persuaded to stay for a 'ghani?"

"What do you think, Mac?"

"I'm easy."

"So I heard," Methos smirked, to Jordan's amusement. "How about we give Charlie his walk and pick up a meal?"

"Sure, that's fine. You remember the place?"

"I remember," Methos said with a smile that spoke of past enjoyment. "We won't be long. Any special requests?'

"Extra ...."

"Bread, yeah, I know. God, Jordan, haven't you trained him to stop?"

"Hey, look at him," Jordan said fondly, as the canine in question drooled back lovingly. "He's bigger than me - how the hell am I gonna stop him?"

"Good point. Come on, you rubbish bin," Methos said, clipping on Charlie's leash.

At least it had stopped raining, but it had consequently turned even colder, not that the dog seemed to mind as he trotted happily after the two friends. "How often did Jordan play with Joe's band?" Duncan asked.

"As often as humanly possible, until Joe stopped touring. They were threatening to form a group called 'Stumpies'. I think it was the only time I seriously considered divorcing Joe," Methos said with a grin.

"How did Joe meet him? Is it just a coincidence he's an amputee?" Duncan asked.

"Actually, yes. They met in the diabetic clinic and got talking."

"So he lost his legs to diabetes?"

"No, a tube train. Some idiot pushed Jordan off a platform late one night. He was damn lucky to survive."

Looking at his surroundings, Duncan felt 'lucky' was a relative term. "Joe could have ended up like him," he said, speaking his thoughts out loud.

"Yes, I know. It's something I feel a little proud of."

"You gave him comfort, a good home, love and support, Methos. All of that is to be proud of."

"Everything but life, Mac." Duncan turned to look at him questioningly, and Methos shrugged. "There wasn't a day we were together that I didn't wish he was Immortal."

"I thank God he wasn't," Duncan said firmly.

"Why?" Methos asked in blank surprise.

"Look around you - this _would_ have been his life. Not well off like you and me - poor for years and years, until he lost the first Challenge made to him. You know how long the lifespan is for crippled Immortals, Adam. As it was he lived longer, more happily, more healthily than he ever would have done on his own. You took him places he dreamed of going, you two did things he never did as a single man. To my way of thinking, Immortality would be a poor substitute for all that."

"But he'd still be with me," Methos murmured. They started to walk on in response to Charlie's tugging on the leash.

"You think? What I think is that you would have made an easy target together and he'd have been dead within a year. He told me something once. He said that having you to remember him was the best memorial he could ever want. He hoped you'd come to realise that."

"And you're only just mentioning to this me now," Methos said sceptically.

"If I'd said it before, it would have just set you off again. Don't cheapen what he was, Adam. His mortal life was worth ten of most Immortals."

"It was worth ten of mine. Okay, what's your choice?" And with that, Methos drew the subject firmly to a close.

For a takeaway, the food, inauthentic as Duncan knew it perfectly well to be, wasn't too bad, and Jordan clearly appreciated their company. He and Methos left with invitations to drop in again any time ringing in their ears, and Charlie barking his endorsement.

"So, you're thinking Joe's birthday? Not the anniversary then," Duncan asked as they walked to the Tube station.

"I want to celebrate his life, not his death, Mac. I take it you approve."

"Completely. I don't suppose...."

"What?"

"That you'd let me be part backer?"

Methos smiled. "It would be a pleasure to separate you from your money, Mr MacLeod. Sure you can help."

He and Methos spent a few more days sorting out the Esher house, and sending out feelers to Joe's former friends and band members. Even before he had taken Methos back to Paris for a week, they had already received several positive responses. Methos threw himself into the project, and while in Paris, spent some time getting in touch with old contacts and arranging a club for the session, which Duncan would pay for. Logistics insisted on a Parisian setting, and Methos was going to cover the expenses of the musicians and technicians coming from Britain. Duncan contacted Amanda who was thrilled at the idea and would be there. There were plans for a commercial release, with Methos writing biographical notes for the cover.

After a week in France, Duncan returned for a last few days back in Esher. The change in Methos was the source of quiet satisfaction to him - already the hollows in the cheeks were filling a little, the circles under his eyes had disappeared, and the sword work they had done in Duncan's private salle convinced him that the old man was ready and willing to defend himself against Challenges, rare as they thankfully were in his quiet part of the world. And he was sleeping better - even though he was now alone at night, the horrible moaning which chilled Duncan to his core to hear had stopped. Gently he detached and Methos resumed his former habit of independence, but there remained a comforting level of physical affection between them for which Duncan was grateful.

There was one other thing that Methos wanted his help with, and the day before he was due to go home, they drove in Methos' Range Rover out to East Sussex, to visit an artist Methos had commissioned the month after Joe had died to create a cover stone for the grave. The artist drew back the sacking to show Methos what she had achieved, and Duncan's first thought was of the love it showed. "You drew this," he said, and Methos nodded.

"I can draw but I can't do bas relief or stone cutting. Angela here is the clever one. It's wonderful, just perfect, Angela."

"I had great material, Adam," she said, obviously pleased at his praise.

Methos paid the balance of the commission, and then the unpolished black marble stone was slid carefully into the back of the car. Back at the house, the two men struggled with the stone but finally got it into the garden. The soil wasn't frozen, thank God, because it needed some more digging and levelling before the cover could be laid in place and the bulbs Methos had chosen were carefully planted around it. "Snow drops, crocuses, daffs and bluebells," he'd explained. Colour for months before the oak tree threw its generous shadow in the summer over the grave.

They stood and looked at the dark rock against the damp loam. Joe's name, dates, his service rank and serial number and the words 'Beloved friend' ("He was a friend first and above all else," Methos had explained) below an etched image of him playing his guitar, carved into dull black stone. "I sketched him years ago when he was with the band," Methos said. "I've got books and books of drawings of him. None of them very good - but Angela's done all right by me."

"It's well done, it's good," Duncan said, hugging him impulsively. "Thanks."

"What for?" Methos asked, obviously startled.

"For taking care of our friend. He deserved you, you know."

Methos' eyes were bright from more than the biting wind. "He deserved the very best."

"And he got it. He really did, Methos."

Methos smiled in embarrassment, then gestured at the stone. "If I ever let the house, I'll insist the grave is preserved as part of any deal. It won't last forever ...."

"But it will last long enough. Can I see the other drawings?"

Methos kept up a flow of self-deprecating comments as he took Duncan up to his office where he kept a surprisingly large folio of pencil and charcoal sketches of many different subjects, although his late husband figured prominently. "You should use one of these for the qube cover. I didn't know you drew," Duncan said wonderingly. They were really good - and he knew what he was talking about.

"Everyone did at one time. Everyone can, actually."

"Not like this." He lifted a candid sketch of Joe with a glass in his hand. Obviously relaxed, happy, his eyes full of light. Seeing the familiar features again struck Duncan with force, and he found his hands shaking. Methos took the drawing from him and put his arm around his shoulders.

"Hey, it's okay," he said quietly as Duncan's eyes grew blurry, the pain of his grief ambushing him. Methos led him to the chair and made him sit, kneeling in front of him and rubbing his hands.

"I'm ... I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me," Duncan muttered.

"No? I think you do." Methos stood and pulled him close. "You honour him with your tears, Mac," he murmured gently.

 

* * *

A week ago, Mac's grief would have undone me, but he has given me enough back that I can be strong for him. He doesn't weep long, and is embarrassed. I just lend him my hanky and let him wipe his eyes and blow his nose. "Uh," he clears his throat. "Would you ... I mean, could I ...?"

"Mac?"

"Could I have this?" he says in a rush, pointing to the picture he was holding when he broke down. It's a favourite, but they are all precious and it's little enough to give him in return for all he has done for me. For both me and Joe.

When he's calm, I roll the picture and put it in a protective cylinder for him. "I'll look after it," he says fervently.

"Well, I wasn't expecting you to carry it when you next take a head, Mac," I say tartly, which has the desired effect of making him grin.

It's been a long day. Laying the stone was an emotional experience for both of us, and after a month of looking after me, I figure the Highlander could do with a little TLC, especially as he's going back to his empty apartment tomorrow. I pour us one of the best reds I have in the cellar and call one of the better local restaurants and wheedle them into delivering a meal for us which will come in an hour or so. In the meantime, I light the fire again, since Mac clearly relishes primitive heat and light, and curl up next to him on the sofa. He's a very tactile man, and in many ways it's easier to comfort him with touch than with words. He's lost a lot in the time I've known him - friends, lovers, students, his cousin, Joe ... me, too, I suppose, even if it was just to marriage and the English Channel. It's left him stronger, wiser ... sadder. Does he really believe that rot about never being able to be married? I have to admit the business over Kells and Kate shook me nearly as much as it did him but she struck me as being a few apples short of an orchard anyway. Being the world's best known Immortal tends to have its downside so far as relationships are concerned. Maybe I'll make Mac my project - find him a new love, and let him find the joy I've had all these years.

Our food arrives and after we eat and drink more of the wine, Mac relaxes. He looks around my home wistfully - I guess he's thinking about all the weekends he spent here with us, and how it'll never be just the three of us again, swapping yarns and drinking good booze. "Will you come visit again soon?" I ask, shamelessly using my widowed state to hook him.

"Of course - did you think I'd abandon you?" he bristles, the clan chief to the fore, right on cue. "And you can come stay with me whenever you want. You always could, you know that."

"I'll take you up on that. Now," I say, pushing the plates aside. "Another chess game?"

Tonight it's he who is distracted, and I beat him easily. More alcohol, I decide, pouring him a whiskey which he accepts silently, staring into the flames of the fire he's just poked into life again. "What's wrong?" I ask gently.

"Oh, nothing. I've enjoyed being with you these few weeks."

"And I have enjoyed your company more than I can possibly say, Mac. You've made some difficult things easier, and the grief manageable. I could have suffered for years without finding my way out without your help." I sit behind him on the sofa, and he leans back against my knees. I loosen his hair - amazing how comfortable we have become with each other that it doesn't even occur to me to ask first - and begin a deep and thorough massage of his scalp. He groans with pleasure, squirming as the tension drops away. I bet he had a headache.

"God that feels good. I can't remember the last time someone did that for me."

"Amanda?"

"Not her thing. Anyway, I hardly ever see her any more." I 'hmmm' in sympathy, transferring my attentions to his shoulders, which are rock hard. Patiently I work the powerful muscles - Joe was just the same, his incredible upper body strength used to work against him when he was tense or upset and he used to appreciate me doing this just as Mac is.

"What will you do now?" he asks.

"Me? Same as I have been. Working, living. Missing Joe. Missing you."

He reaches up a hand and catches mine. "You don't need to miss me, Methos."

"And you don't need to miss me, Mac." I kiss him softly on the top of his head.

"What's that for?"

"Because I wanted to, shut up." Which, to my relief, he does. He sits passively, heavy against my legs, the only sound in the room the rain on the roof and the crackling of the wood. I stroke his hair casually as he drinks the rest of his Scotch slowly, lost in thought.

His train is an early one, and the night is cold and rainy. I tug on one long dark lock. "Come on, Highlander, time for good little Scots to hit the hay."

"You'll make someone a wonderful mother one of these days, Methos," he says irritably, levering himself up. He touches my shoulder. "Good night."

"You too."

I wait until he's done in the bathroom and settled into the bed before sidling in the room and slipping under the covers. "Methos? What are you doing?"

"Saying goodbye. Do you really want to sleep alone tonight?'

"God, no, I don't," he says, his voice cracking. He dashes the sudden dampness from his eyes. "Look, I'm sorry, you don't need this."

"Wrong, Duncan, I do. I need your pain and your love and your friendship, and you need mine. It's all we have. It's all we ever have. You've reminded me of that." I snuggle close to him and almost instinctively he wraps his arms around me. "Would you like to make love? I mean, properly, you and me, no ghosts?" I still feel bad about using him the way I did that first night.

"Would you be offended if I say no?" he says quietly. "I really just like holding you, Methos. I like holding people."

"Well, that's okay then, because I really like being held by you, Mac." I kiss his cheek. "Sleep well, my friend."

He pulls my head close so he can press his lips gently to my forehead. "And you."

He falls asleep quickly, as he always seems to do. Me, I look into the darkness and see Joe's face. Oh, my love, I miss you. All you gave me, and this man too. You brought him back to me after our friendship was in crisis long ago, and you made sure we stayed friends all these years. "Thank you," I whisper out loud.

"You're welcome," Mac mumbles, obviously not quite asleep. I smile at his instinctive response, kiss his hair, wishing again it was Joe, but glad it's Mac. I have been blessed to know love in all its many forms, and have learnt the wisdom not to reject one for another. And who knows, if I live another thousand years, I might, just possibly meet another Joe. And if I am very, very lucky indeed, that Joe will love me the way mine did. I hope we might be friends. For that love endures too.

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written nearly twenty years ago under another pseudonym. It hasn't been revised (or reread by me) since then.
> 
> I am posting this and my other stories from this period purely so people can read them if they choose. I won't be reading comments, and don't care if you leave kudos. I'm dumping them and running.
> 
> Having said that, I worked hard on them, and I hope they still entertain someone out there.


End file.
